


A light springing from the shadows

by FakeCirilla9



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms
Genre: Drinking, Gen, M/M, Mordor, Politics, Second Age, Talking, War of the Last Alliance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-30
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-03-06 15:01:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26200807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FakeCirilla9/pseuds/FakeCirilla9
Summary: A story of striking up a battlefield friendship.
Relationships: Isildur & Thranduil
Comments: 4
Kudos: 10
Collections: Tolkien Reverse Summer Bang 2020





	A light springing from the shadows

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Fernstrike](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fernstrike/gifts).



> 1\. Inspired by [this amazing fanart](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190028576@N08/50285677208/in/dateposted-public/) by [Fernstrike](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fernstrike). Thank you for coworking with me on this fic and especially thank you for creating such an inspiring picture! (The art is also embedded in the story).
> 
> 2\. Many, many thanks to my beta [ FingolfinSilme](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FingolfinSilme/pseuds/FingolfinSilme), who was very helpful. The fic would be much worse without this help ~~and it'd contain a number of embarrassing typos~~.
> 
> 3\. Last but not least, thanks to the mods who run this exchange!

Shadows that hung over the land of Mordor were lit by bonfires and torches of the vigilant sentinels but in the overwhelming darkness, all lights kindled by the Men of Westernesse seemed feeble like candle flames and lost like will-o-’wisp at the marches. Even surrounded as it was, the dark tower of Sauron loomed over them, filling men’s hearts with despair and their minds with unease. The Power that dwelled there, brooding, seemed to spread its dark thoughts upon the troops of soldiers encircling it. Even the most courageous ones faltered when during the moonless nights of the endless watch some shadows seemed to take on a form of living things and haunt the camps of the Westerners or while the blow of an eastern wind carried the cry of a wraith on its wings.

The bright fires that sometimes spiked up from the Orodruin, accompanied by the deep rumour alike that of thunder, as if the Arda itself was displeased, brought no relief. If anything, it made things yet worse, flooding Men with superstitious fears and scaring off the beasts that were on their side. Mount Doom, people named it and watched in agitation as the great volcano threatened to erupt at any moment.

It spat out the exhausts of dark, acrid smoke that choked Men and Elves alike. The wisps of it clouded over the sky so tightly that rarely any star shone through the heavy veil. The thick canopy was illuminated only by the red glow that emanated from the fiery cracks in the ashen earth. The crimson radiance provided little visibility. Instead, it made everything look like it was covered in blood.

Wobbling flames of torches lit the way of a Dúnadan making his way across the camp. He must be a lord of high status, for Men parted for him and bowed their heads. It was a sign of respect rather than fear. From the way their eyes lingered after he passed them, they appeared regretful that the commander did not stop by their bonfire. A beloved captain, then, who does not fret from striking a friendship with common soldiers and whom in turn they are ready to follow into the fire, be it of Mount Doom itself.

The man strode towards the tent of the Elvenking. The pavilion did not outstand in any way the rest of the grey triangles scattered around it. Their plain colour shaded to green, or even brown, depending on the surrounding. The magic of the wood elves was good at making them fit into the landscape rather than change the environment for ones’ demands like the Ñoldor or Númenóreans did.

The motionless figure of a guard standing before the tent was nigh invisible, blending into the everlasting night. Yet, as the Man approached the loosely lowered flap of the entrance, the Elf stepped swiftly in front of him, obstructing his way.

“I need to speak to your king.”

The Elf didn’t move. Nor did he blink or give any other sign that he heard or understood the words.

The Númenórean’s temper sizzled but he forced himself to remain calm. Perhaps the Woodland Realm’s dweller did not understand Quenya, which the Man had used without a second thought after spending so much time in the company of his father and the High King Gil-Galad.

“I am Isildur, son of Elendil,” he tried again in a more diplomatic tone, using the wood elves’ Sindarin. “I demand to see with thy lord.” 

The Elf blinked. No emotion could be read from his face. Impatient, Isildur tried to go round him but the Elf moved along so he was still barricading the way.

“Do not tempt my hand, soldier.”

He did not wish to rouse trouble but his hand strayed to the hilt of his sword on an impulse. The Elf’s eyes flickered to the Man’s hand but he undertook no similar measures. Isildur wondered whether the guard considered his speed as far above the mortal’s that he could offer him a head start or if his orders explicitly excluding the blood-shedding of an ally.

Before he could find out in practice, a voice subdued by the thick material of the tent flowed out.

“Let him in.”

Obediently, the elf stood aside.

Marvelling at this display of loyalty, Isildur walked in. The entry flap fell closed after him. The interior was lit by so many candles that the walls were painted orange by their radiance. The gentle warm light cast everything into flickering patterns of figures and shadows: not the threatening ones but such that brought a fireplace to mind. The branch-like holders of the lamps gave the guest an impression of walking into the wood, strengthened yet by the smell of the forest that hung pungent in the air, filling the breast with every inhale. A visitor could nearly forget they were in the middle of a battlefield.

Isildur looked around, searching for the host, half-expecting to find him seated in a throne made of wood, adorned with rowan and blueberries.

Instead, the Elvenking emerged from behind a veil that divided the tent into two rooms, one being dedicated for his private chamber, most likely, and the other assigned as a place for receiving envoys. Even though the elf lord was clearly not inclined to entertain anyone now as his rather dry reception testified to:

“How did you know I was here?” 

Isildur tried not to stare at the green paint covering half of the Elf’s face but it was nigh impossible as he was used to looking people in the eye.

“Númenóreans have their ways,” Isildur couldn’t help bragging. Such was his nature – proud and rash. “The old Númenor may have sunk but we’ve brought some keepsakes…” 

The Elvenking looked at him shrewdly, studying his face. 

“Seeing stones...” the Elf mused.

Isildur faltered a bit. The new king of the Woodland Realm might be bereft of the Rings of Power and not counted among the High Elves and yet he clearly saw more than met the eye. 

“…are not wrought by Númenórean hands,” Thranduil commented almost as an afterthought but there was a smug little smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Aye, that's true. They were a gift from elders of Eressëa; brought to us from behind the western sea in the days when all hope seemed lost. Now the Atalantë is no more but we cherished the gems of true worth and taken them to new settlements.”

“And I see you can master them if you had the information of my whereabouts.” 

Isildur was not sure whether it was meant as a compliment or a slight. Before he could reach a conclusion, however, Thranduil inquired further:

“What brings you here?” The Elvenking apparently resigned himself to the role of a polite host because instead of piercing Isildur with his keen gaze, he turned to pour wine for both of them, while waiting for the answer.

“My father and I, as well as the High King, wish to express our grief for your loss.”

“I suppose I shall thank you,” mused Thranduil, handing Isildur one of the cups, “and pretend not to know that the real reason of your father and Gil-Galad sending you here is to probe whether I’ll retrieve my forces or stay and lead them to fight in my father’s place.” 

“Do not think me so heartless!” Isildur nearly spilt out his wine, moving in agitation.

Thranduil took a sip of his own drink, looking at the Man over the golden brink. The ore reflected the light of candle flames, making the Elvenking’s eyes gleam like emeralds, and Isildur noticed that the green paint on the Elf’s face, that he had thought uniform, was crosscut by some dark lines. The black smudges were painted as an extension of the intricate circlet that adorned the golden hair and help keep it in place. For the usually flowing lose waterfall of tresses was now braided tightly back so that it would not hinder movements in a fight. 

“You seem honest,” acknowledged Thranduil.

 _Which cannot be said about your lieges_ , the acute gaze seemed to add. Isildur felt awry with his mission more so than when he had unwillingly took it or had brooded on it during his way here. Under the cold emerald gems of the other's eyes, faced with the beautiful yet distant as if wrought of stone features of the Sindar elf, all the keener he felt the inappropriateness of investigating the Elvenking for his intentions now, in the moment of grief.

Once again he questioned his father's wisdom at yielding to the request of the High King of the Ñoldor. They shall give Thranduil some more time, especially as the Elvenking clearly wished to be left alone. There was little he could do about it, though, sans marking his vain veto. A father's will prevailed over that of a son.

He desperately grasped for a notion of how to console the mourning king, staring into his own untouched wine as if the solution may swim up to him from the red depths. The fluid rocked like waves in the ocean, still not fully calm after Isildur’s sudden move of a hand. It licked the golden cliffs like water once caressed the rocks of Andúnië before it mounted into a dark tide that swept the entire island from the surface of the world.

“Sauron took much from all of us. There are none among us who have not lost something dear due to his black treachery. Be it the death of kin, the lost city, the Akallabêth…” Isildur’s voice ran off. 

The wood-smelling silence was filled by the melodious voice of an elf. It came over to Isildur as if from the shadowy depths of a beech clearing, deep and gentle at once. 

“The story of Númenor is as great as it is tragic and the news of it travel far. Even separated by the wall of the Misty Mountains, we've heard. And it filled our hearts with sorrow.”

Thranduil raised a cup to him in a silent toast so Isildur followed suit, drinking from his own chalice. The wine was sweet and potent and it left a taste of wood berries at Isildur’s tongue. Thranduil’s irises, he judged, looking into the king’s eyes at a close distance, were more like the early green of beech trees when a spring comes than that of an emerald stone.

“Losing a father is a severe blow,” Isildur admitted, “yet you, at least, have something to come back to. This wine tastes of your homeland. And it is safe and waiting for the return of its king and its warriors while ours is lost forever.”

“Only a mortal could say such a thing!” derided Thranduil. “The land is never the same. The leaves on the trees will not be the same that grew there when we headed out. The world around us changes incessantly and we cannot put a stop to it no matter how hard we try to preserve things… There are ways to do so, perhaps, but it is too dangerous to attempt them now. As to death, I suppose it must be easier for you to whom it is doomed from the very beginning. Your fathers always die by the will of Eru even if their lifespan is extended beyond what is usually measured for the Second Borns. It is not so for us. Oropher could have lived many next ages yet.”

The king’s speech stung. It didn’t hurt so much Isildur’s feelings as it upset his pride. Here he had reached out, tried to bring solace and for his efforts, scorn was the answer?

“Do not think, my lord, that death is easy for my kin only because we are meant to die. Many of us fear it. Many of us strayed to the darkest paths because of fearing it too much.”

“Yes, many Men of Westernesse fight within the ranks of the Enemy still.” Thranduil’s voice grew thoughtful and Isildur lent an attentive ear. “And there are rumours... Some say that he can do something to preserve your hröa or fëa, that he can make you live forever.”

Despite the candles warming the air with the smell of wood, Isildur felt a chill running through him as he thought of the dark figures that many whispered about; of the nameless fear from folk’s tales that peasants dreaded; of Men that seemed to be the shadows of themselves, reflecting the abhorrent power of the Black Foe and tainted by it. Some did not believe the tales were true but Isildur had seen them. He had heard their blood-curdling cries that night when Sauron led his troops to conquer the fair Ithilien. Out of the unprepared household, only a few escaped death. People were slain, the White Tree was burned. Death, fire and choking smoke took over the once beautiful fortress in the mountain vale. Only ashes remained in Sauron's wake. Where once little star-like flowers twinkled in the short grass, spilling their sweet scent, now a desolated land stretched. 

And though the Enemy forces were stopped at Osgiliath by Anarion and subsequently driven away to whatever crevices they crawled from, none dared to settle in the vale again. Scarcely a traveller wandered in there. Only watches guarded the pass so no evil thing could pass the valley.

Once a lively domain, it became a desolation. The forces of the wicked witchcraft drew away but the Ulairi leave a lingering footprint of fear wherever they appear.

“The Wraiths?” Isildur spat. “Let us not speak about them in this dark country that became the abode of evil. It is better not to summon vile things from the shadows. Besides, what they have is just a mockery of immortality. A vile trick, suiting to the treacherous Lord of Gifts.” Isildur pronounced the title as if it was a curse.

“You wouldn’t take a ring from him, then?” Thranduil asked, curious.

“Never!”

“So do you not fear death like so many of your kin?” the Elf probed further.

“Not my own, no,” answered Isildur. “I only fear the demise of those dear to me. Yet the whole affair is not a simple question of avoiding death. Gifts from Sauron always come poisoned. I wouldn’t take anything that he offers.” Isildur’s mouth grimaced into a crooked smile, his white teeth flashed amidst the dark stubble as he added: “Not that he would ever offer anything of the kind to me. He would gladly hasten my death rather than delaying it.”

Thranduil did not exactly answer the smile but his eyes glinted: in a shared joyfulness perhaps or with a dose of admiration.

“The tidings concerning your deeds spread wide as well,” the Elvenking commented. “They say it is thanks to you that the Tree of Gondor blossoms today.” Thranduil’s eyes flickered to the motif wrought on the Númenórean armour. The silver likeliness of a white hardwood spread its branches across the Man’s breastplate, reaching in many directions, stretching towards the seven stars that shone above the proud tree crown.

Never the one of too much modesty, Isildur did not repudiate the praise. The brunette took another mouthful of the tasty wine. It must be potent, verily, for when he drained up the cup, the elven lord stood suddenly much closer to him, and Isildur did not register the Elf’s movement. As Thranduil bent to refill his cup, Isildur noticed that the Elf was a bit higher than he himself; a difference that was imperceptible at the previous distance. Tall after his father, the Númenórean was used to looking down at most Men and even many Elves. It was a new experience to be forced to look up at someone that wasn’t Elendil the Tall. 

“What is it?” Thranduil queried, not unkindly and Isildur realised he was staring blatantly at his companion.

“I wondered about the paint.” He said the first thing that came to his mind. Foolish as it sounded it was definitely better than admitting to pondering the stature of the other male. So Isildur went on valiantly: “At first, I thought it some sign of mourning but–”

“I do not seem grief-stricken?” Thranduil interrupted his excuses. 

“Not to the point of shedding tears or despairing at the loss…” Isildur clarified, rather clumsily and immediately wondered if the Elvenking would take his words as he meant them. Taking precautions, he supplied: “I don’t mean any offence by the observation.” 

“None taken,” Thranduil conceded.

The Elf put the bottle of a curious shape back on the desk after he had completed refilling their cups to the rim.

“It is a camouflage,” the king answered the original question, indicating his face. “War paint, if you prefer.”

That seemed to answer not only Isildur’s personal curiosity but also satisfy the purpose of his being there.

“So you are going to continue the fight?” the Númenórean ascertained. 

“I am,” the king said and his eyes, fixed on Isildur until now, took on the disquieting glaze of an Elf looking further into the matters of the world than simply seeing their interlocutor. “They aren’t wrong, the leaders of our Alliance. There is a time to mourn and there is a time for war. Now it is the time of war. Only after it is ended, I will grieve my father and king properly.”

“The wisdom of true kings is speaking through you,” Isildur responded with a customary formula. Maybe because of the wine blurring some etiquette lines it didn’t dawn on him that it was better suiting to Men than Elves.

“And are you surprised by that?” Thranduil’s face was perfectly impassive, but a playful note in the Elvenking’s tone convinced Isildur that he wasn’t affronted. 

The further words of the king reassured Isildur still: 

“Sometimes I wonder what the Ñoldor are telling about us. The wanderers travelling through the Woodland Realm seem to have most curious conceptions concerning the wood elves inhabiting the area. There is no doubt as to who plants those ridiculous notions in their heads.”

Isildur fought the smile that teased the muscles of his face, pulling and tugging at his cheeks like Valandil’s little fingers. Even though his manners might be loosened by the two cups of a strong wine consumed after little food and even less rest, his sense of honour didn’t doze off. It demanded to defend his liege.

“Distance and unreliable go-betweens cause words to twist on their way from the source to the journey's end. You wouldn’t believe what the wild people whisper about Númenóreans,” Isildur said. “One of the most common beliefs is that we feed on stones.” 

Thranduil smiled a full, teeth-showing smile which left Isildur breathless for a second as he beheld the even rows of the teeth like purest pearls. Whatever else was said about the Sindar, none denied them the first place in fair looks among the Elven tribes left in Middle Earth.

“Do you truly think so, my lord?” taunted Thranduil. “Because I must admit, that for me <<they're less wise and more dangerous>> sounds very much like Ereinion indeed.” 

Isildur snorted and covered it with burying his mouth in the drink. The sweetness filled his senses as he took a deep gulp, all-encompassing and so rich that it left the scratchy aftertaste in his throat.

"What is the vine made of?" He ventured, desperately trying to direct the conversation at safer areas than mocking the High King. 

"Take your guess,” Thranduil challenged.

"Raspberries." Isildur chanced, as he gathered the sticky sweetness from his lips with his tongue. Thranduil's eyes followed the movement.

"Mostly," the Elvenking admitted. "And some blackberries to intensify the taste as well as to improve the colour. Look how clear it is," he demanded as he reached for the bottle near Isildur's elbow and poured his companion more wine, even though the Man's cup wasn't wholly emptied yet.

"Look how the light shines through it," urged Thranduil.

Isildur dropped his gaze to where Thranduil handled the liquid expertly. Its stream poured in a thin string from the funnel-like neck, not a drop falling out. And indeed, even the artificial light of the inside of the tent, so much fainter than the light of the sun, could be seen filtering through the red thong. The wine didn't change its colour much under such treatment, only became more transparent.

"Indeed, it is very lucid," Isildur praised, spellbound by the spectacle. "It shall be drunk from glassware," he declared. "Though I suppose that's hard to pull off when on a journey."

"Yes, gold is much more handy,” Thranduil agreed with a touch of sorrow in his voice.

The entire presentation had lasted no more than a blink of an eye and, as a result, Isildur's cup was full again and he was beginning to wonder in what condition he will leave the wood elves' king's quarters.

Yet, to refute a joint drink would be a grievous diplomatic offence, which he couldn't allow. And more important, he found the wine really good and the company more agreeable than his father's acquaintances. Therefore, Isildur raised his cup for the countless time that evening. 

"To the Woodland Realm," he proposed. "The land that yields the sweetest berries."

"To Greenwood," concurred Thranduil.

The gold chalices clunked in a toast.

"It must be very potent too," noted the heir of Arnor, as another draught of the liquor went down his throat and warmed his insides. "Much stronger than it seems at first..." Isildur could feel its effects already. His head was pleasurably dizzy, every concern distanced itself to a comfortable farness, and his limbs felt languid despite carrying the heavy armour plates.

"It is the merit of long ageing," provided Thranduil obligingly. "We use oak barrels sealed tightly shut to prevent the evaporation of taste. It increases the percentage as well."

"So how old is this one?" ventured Isildur.

"About a thousand years," Thranduil’s casual comment made Isildur nearly choke on his gulp of wine.

"Impossible!” Elendil’s son sputtered. “It would have been poison by now!" 

Isildur surged to the bottle, grabbing it himself and squinting at the etiquette.

[](https://www.flickr.com/photos/190028576@N08/50285677208/in/dateposted-public/)

"Some argue any wine is a poison, no matter how old." Thranduil watched him all composed. Only one of his thick black eyebrows rode up as its owner took in Isildur's excesses. "I fail to see how reading the label shall dispel your doubts," he commented. "You do realize it bears my seal and thus is equivalent to my words?"

Isildur's gaze shifted from the bottle to the person of the king.

"It is not that I doubt your word, my lord. It is just hard to embrace," the knight of Arnor said.

"The effects of the drink advocate for the truth of it the best of all things, don't they?" Thranduil countered with a glint of mischief in his green eyes.

Isildur didn't like that nor the indulgent tone of the Elf. He would prefer to be offended and offend in turn than treated like an unknowing child.

"I am not drunk," he claimed, looking darkly at his host.

"Then I shall trust your word that your sudden openness is a result of taking an immediate liking to myself. I believe I should feel honoured by it," Thranduil said.

Isildur, a bottle of wine in one hand, full cup of it in the other, tried to gauge whether the Elf was serious or having a private amusement at his sake. 

"If by open you mean honest I must disappoint you. I always say what I think. It is not thanks to your wine or your person. Which does not mean you make an unpleasant company."

Thranduil smiled at that.

"You deliver compliments in the most charming way. Preceded with ticking off every disadvantage as they are, the addressee can at least be sure they're true."

"I think," Isildur said slowly, gathering his spinning thoughts into coherent words, "that you had too little of your own specific, my lord."

"By all means, even the odds then," Thranduil brought his cup nearer to the bottle that Isildur still held.

Having put his cup away, Isildur fumbled with the unfamiliar closing for a bit, loath to damage any good of the Elvenking, even as trivial as a liquid container. It turned out to be a mechanism as simple as cork and gave up under a pull of little strength. The Man canted the bottle to refill the king's empty goblet. He was careful not to spill any amount over the edge. The beech-green eyes never left his person.

"Although I don't think this will take me into a similar state you seem to have walked into.” Thranduil expressed his doubts aloud. “I have quite a long experience over you in these matters."

"Yes, I noticed how the wood elves seem to use every and each gift of the forest to the utmost," Isildur riposted.

"We do,” Thranduil confessed without an ounce of shame. “And we don't withhold from merrymaking as our cousins at Lindon seem to be doing." The Elf took a long sip of his wine, before continuing: "But do not think it is limited to distilling liquors, my lord. You can smell the forest in the fumes here, don't you?"

"Yes, and I wondered about that as I entered" Isildur was reminded of the pleasant scent and breathed it in deeply. "It was like walking into a beech grove.” 

"Because we use its resin as a fuel for the lamps."

Thranduil indicated a small stock prepared for keeping up a fire. It looked like solidified droplets of tree sap.

Isildur went to it and drew one to smell it but the scent was faint. 

"You may cast it into the fire,” Thranduil advised. “It releases more scent when heated."

Isildur looked down at the trinket in his hand.

"It sounds like a waste. It is so pretty," the Númenórean said, caressing the golden surface, staring at it as if enchanted by its beauty.

"We have countless of these,” Thranduil reasoned. “Some are buried shallow in the ground in the entire forest. Some washed out by the waters of Anduin near our eastern border. And when yielding them from trees, we only take of the wounded specimens, crashed by a storm or thrown down by the wind."

A bit reluctantly the future king of Arnor slipped the gemlike piece to the nearest candle bowl. The flames licked its surface hungrily and slowly it begun to melt, feeding the fire to burn brighter. 

"A burning stone," the Man muttered, transfixed by the golden display. Beech scent, the smell of spring in the wood when everything begins to wake after winter to live again, rose to his nostrils. 

Thranduil stepped close behind Isildur's back to peer over the Man’s shoulder.

"Mortals' thoughts follow surprisingly close ways,” the Elf pondered. “People from villages nearby our realm call it Bernstein. A pleasant name if not entirely correct,” he acceded.

Isildur thought of another wood burning and wondered why for all its beauty in blossoming it didn't smell pleasant when dying in flames. Maybe because Nimloth was destined to greater purposes than warming men, and her death came upon her like a slaughter, violent and brought by the Evil. Wishing to cut himself off the hurtful memories that flooded him, Isildur turned from the burning resin.

The abrupt move brought him almost chest to chest with Thranduil who didn't manage to step back in time to make enough space for him. Perhaps it was for the better. The world spun quicker around Isildur’s head than it ought to and the Man reached out a hand on an impulse to prevent a fall. He caught himself at the other's breast. 

He could sense a new comment about his addled state forming in Thranduil's mind before the Elf even opened his mouth to voice it. Isildur needed to act quicker this time.

"Is this made of wood? Your armour, I mean," instead of taking his hand off the Elf, his fingers traced the carved etchings of Thranduil's breastplate, as if he meant to touch it from the very beginning. The adornments were mostly abstract shapes, resembling leaves of different species.

He wasn't certain if Thranduil had not seen right through his charade – he most probably had because it verily wasn't the strongest of Isildur's diversions – but the Elvenking let him keep his face this time and went along with the game, answering:

"Yes. Oakwood. Much lighter than metal and just as practical in terms of defence. It does not heat up so much in the sun too. And you won't drown when cast into the water."

"Sounds like something we should apply at our ships."

"Good idea,” Thranduil agreed. “Although I would not allow you to cut down any tree that grows within my borders, I may invite you to my realm so you will see how we produce them."

Isildur had said his part without a second thought almost; it was just the first thing that came to his mind. But now the Elvenking sounded like he meant it and didn't speak only to keep the talk flowing. This conversation was running quite ahead of Isildur's line of thoughts.

"Are you inviting me to the Woodland Realm?" he asked to assure himself.

"Indeed I am, my lord. I find your company truly agreeable and not so much despite your straightforwardness but because of it," Thranduil smiled politely at him.

Isildur realised he still had his hand propped against the Elvenking's chest so he took it off and straightened to keep the rest of his dignity.

"I will gladly come, then,” Isildur assented with genuine willingness behind his words. “Do you not think we shall move from titles to given names by this point?" he proposed. 

"Gladly, Isildur."

Isildur smiled broadly at the use of his given name. 

"Let us drink to our newly founded friendship, Thranduil," the Man said, enjoying the newly initiated acquaintance thoroughly.

The cups clinked again.

"I may send you a shipment of these," suggested Thranduil, indicating the emptied wine bottle on the table. "Once the times will be safer we could float them down the Anduin and you would receive it in Osgiliath. There is a question of omitting the Rauros Falls on the way but I'm sure the renowned builders of Númenor will think of something."

Isildur watched how the king’s face changed as he spoke, how his eyes shone with new possibilities opening in his mind.

"You will be a great king to your people," the Númenórean assessed. "They should thrive when you think of forging commercial links on such a scale already in our circumstances."

"I find it the best way to improve the countries’ wellbeing and safety in many aspects. People get increasingly richer, the roads and safe passes are built, everyone has something to work on. And when even the lowliest subject has something on their own, everyone is willing to defend the country."

"And its king is richer and richer," Isildur quipped.

Thranduil did not seem offended in the slightest.

"Yes, that too. It is a less glorious way than conquest, I deem, but isn't it the fairer one?"

“Throughout its history, Númenor often combined the two but it never brought anything good to exploit the peoples of Middle Earth. Some captains earned fortunes that way and commended it as the easiest and quickest mean to an end. Yet eventually, it only drove entire tribes away from the Men of Westernesse and under the rule of the Dark Lord. I agree with thee,” Isildur concluded his nearly-drunken, bordering-philosophical speech, “that it is better to use the diplomatic and trade routes already forged than bring everyone under thy rule by force.”

“Besides, using force whether mainly or only seems like too much of the Dark Lords’ methods,” added Thranduil. “It never brought anything good in the history of Middle Earth and those who followed the way that seemed easier, in the end, paid a high price for that. Even Feanorians… Caranthir did pretty well for a long while when living at the side of the great things and indulging in trade more eagerly than in a battle. But perhaps these are the tales for another time.” Thranduil trailed off, looking at the Man before him questioningly.

Only then had Isildur become aware of the flow of time. He realised he must have spent a considerable part of the night as a guest of Thranduil already.

“I am afraid thou are right,” he said with a tad more genuine regret than he would have liked to.” In the good company the time runs as quickly as the mountain creek,” he noted. “I shall be going then.”

“I would stop you,” Thranduil said, in turn, “but perhaps it is better not to risk a diplomatic affair. The High King is still waiting for my answer I imagine.”

Or he’s entertained enough with my father’s company, thought Isildur wryly but did not share that opinion aloud. Instead, he bowed to the Elvenking respectfully.

Thranduil answered with some intricate hand gesture that Isildur knew constituted a hug among the Elves. It felt very remote to Isildur, though, as he considered their erstwhile closeness during the evening. The consumed wine still coursed pleasantly through his veins, warming heart and loosening tongue and manners alike.

“With thy permission, Thranduil, in Númenor we parted with friends like this…” and without really waiting for the Elf’s answer to his boldness, Isildur stepped closer into the other’s personal space. He needed to raise to his tiptoes and even then his mouth reached only the king’s brow. Perhaps it was for the better, he thought. A kiss on the forehead felt too condescending.


End file.
